from Leafmold

F. Daniel Rzicznek

Epiphanies only happen when waiting on people to arrive at the bar: the looks you give and are given, the time on the wall, the music sweeping by song after song, and the sudden face of arrival that cuts a wake across the moment, urges it through your fingers and across into a breast pocket. A corner; drank myself into. A false sense of sun. Deep space between the trunks of trees: the whole of your awareness hangs on it. A wedge in the dirt: morning sun the irritating yellow of sweet corn: a groove in the wall where the tempers open. I take my hand and go like this. (He died on the kitchen floor, warm dishwater dripping, growing cool on his hands, the sound of someone mowing grass after dark in the distance.) We take our potions and pray for sleep. Certain figures occur in summer: the shape of water just after a swimmer has stepped from it, phantom of dew where a glass stood. Can the bird-shadow be happier than the bird? I work at making this space denser. Each image rhymes with a music not heard, a series of translations within the same curbed language. A house inside the ghost: grace.